Survival Guide for the Reincarnated

Kang Cheonwoo let out a sigh.

If they followed Moyong Namcheon’s suggestion, then yes—some kind of answer would present itself.

The outline of a plan was visible, but the finishing stroke—the final flourish—wasn’t there.

He could feel it instinctively, from experience and intuition alike. That it wasn’t the right move.

He fell into thought.

“Seol Unhwi... that boy doesn’t have the eyes of a boy. He clearly carries deep thoughts within... and yet he did this?”

He crossed his arms.

Kang Cheonwoo was no fool. Unhwi was undoubtedly extraordinary, but the information at hand was simply too limited.

Even so, if he were to hazard a guess—

“He must have intel about the Original Blood Sect’s inner workings... or he has proof.”

“If that’s the case, then...?”

“Then he must have a justification—one strong enough not just for the Martial Alliance to step in formally, but to go all-out. Strong enough that even the Sichuan Alliance has to move, and that the Everlasting Snow Palace, no, the entire martial world has to rise in response. Without that kind of justification, he wouldn’t have gambled this recklessly.”

It made sense.

Just as Moyong Namcheon opened his mouth again—

“But if that’s not it... he may simply be walking the path of a martial artist.”

“...The path of a martial artist, you say?”

Kang Cheonwoo waved a hand.

“Forget it. Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

With that, he walked again to the window and looked out across the distant sky.

“The reason I gave him the Heavenshaking Spiritblade... was because I saw potential in him.”

Why was Kang Cheonwoo called the Sichuan Overlord?

One does not bestow the title Overlord lightly.

He walked the Path of Tyranny.

And what is the Path of Tyranny?

It is to cast off all the empty formalities and ancient customs of the world, and to walk the road one believes is right.

“Most martial artists fight to preserve the existing order. But there are some who question that order itself. And at times, they even tear it down.”

Kang Cheonwoo turned to Moyong Namcheon and continued.

“The history of the martial world is a never-ending struggle between those who seek to uphold the existing order and those who seek to transform it. And true progress... has always come from those who shake the foundations.”

“You’re right.”

“I saw the Path of Tyranny in Seol Unhwi. If he saw something we cannot—and that’s what led him to this dangerous challenge...”

“......”

“Then should we not honor it?”

Moyong Namcheon swallowed hard.

“...In that case... Lord Kang, you mean—”

“It’s not yet time to intervene. But prepare to move at any moment.”

Seeing the soft smile on Kang Cheonwoo’s face, Moyong Namcheon responded without the slightest hesitation.

“At your command!”

***

Mount Eumbaek was located in a region known as Hanggyeongjin, nestled between Jeokan and Bongrae.

Halfway up the mountain flowed the Taehwa Stream, a modest spring that once had a small village clustered around it in times long past.

But one day, the stream began to dry up. People left. And now, only the name “Taehwa Stream” remained.

Unhwi squatted beside the completely dried-up spring and scooped a handful of dirt into his palm.

He gently sifted it, then scooped another.

Human movement could reveal many things, but nothing reveals more than the passage of time.

No matter how carefully you try to hide it...

No matter how thoroughly you try to erase every trace...

If high-grade poisons that affect the natural order are used not once or twice but continuously, then the cleanup must be just as meticulous, over and over again.

Diligence is the bare minimum. But in the end, humans are imperfect—mistakes are inevitable.

A faint scent of poison lingered.

“Commander Seong.”

“Yes, young master.”

“When did the spring here begin to dry up?”

“Approximately fifteen years ago.”

Fifteen years.

Not a short time, by any means.

But now, Unhwi could feel the poison still clinging to this dirt.

It wasn’t the reason the spring dried up. This was merely the residual energy that lingered in the “earth veins.”

“They ran experiments for maybe two to three years, no more.”

“...You don’t think it’s been ongoing since fifteen years ago?”

“No.”

Unhwi rose to his feet.

“The experiments lasted, at most, three years. But they staked out the site fifteen years ago. For somewhere this remote, on the outskirts of the Central Plains... that’s impressive diligence.”

“......”

“Ju Soa.”

“Yes?”

“When we return to the sub-division, go to Jang Seok and have him investigate places like Taehwa Stream—springs that used to flow but are now completely dried up and deserted.”

“What’s the search range?”

“Start with the Yangryeong region and expand as far as Geongon Fortress if needed.”

“Understood.”

Unhwi silently made his way toward the thick brush.

Beneath it, there wasn’t just soil—there were traces of a mechanical trap formation.

Stones had been interlocked and arranged in a deliberate pattern.

Following Saengdong’s earlier instructions, Unhwi tapped the stones on the left five times and the ones on the right three times.

Rrrumble.

With a deafening roar, a “door” began to open beneath the foliage.

The secret laboratory of Viper Valley.

“Let’s go in.”

Unhwi led the way without hesitation.

***

The first poison-bearer stood only a few steps from the entrance. He stared at Unhwi, not in shock, but simply with widened eyes.

Unlike an ordinary person—pale skin, veins tinted blue, vertical-slit pupils.

“Oh, a guest...? But no one from the Valley said anyone was coming—”

Before he could finish speaking, Unhwi’s Heavenshaking Spiritblade pierced through his neck.

Shlkk.

The overly long blade skewered through his throat and sank deep into the opposite wall.

“Guh... kegh...”

Black blood dripped from his neck and flowed down the sword.

Unhwi slowly withdrew the blade. He paused for a moment, looking down at the collapsing poison-bearer, then silently moved on.

Past a narrow corridor, a large space unfolded.

Blue lanterns hung from the ceiling, and strange symbols lined the walls.

This was, unmistakably, a laboratory.

The stench of poison wafted from every direction—an aura that prickled at skin, nose, and nerves alike.

As they walked, Unhwi’s group discovered it.

Dozens of tiny prison cells lined the underground space. About five poison-bearers roamed nearby.

Despite seeing intruders, the poison-bearers merely glanced over once, then returned to their tasks.

Clearly mad. Clearly ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) not in their right minds.

Those seeing the scene for the first time were stunned—blinking, confused—but not Unhwi.

He had seen this far too many times.

Those who obsess over a single field lose touch with normalcy. And these weren’t just fanatics—they were addicts, poisoned through and through.

One could not treat them like ordinary humans.

Unhwi spoke quietly.

“Kill them all.”

And—

“Be careful not to let the blood touch you.”

With a nod, his team surged forward.

In an instant, three poison-bearers lost their heads. The remaining two reacted—but when Commander Seong hurled one sword and one dagger with deadly force—

BOOOM!

With a thunderous sound, they were impaled against the wall.

The one pierced by the sword didn’t move again. But the one pinned by the dagger was different. Despite the blade lodged in his solar plexus, he kicked off the wall and charged straight at Unhwi.

Before he could get close, a sword slashed across his head.

It was Ju Soa.

Shhk!

Black blood erupted like a fountain as the poison-bearer’s head was split. Frowning, Ju Soa slammed her boot into his chest and sent the corpse flying back—right along the path of the dagger.

Her expression was grim.

“...Is this really the Original Blood Sect? This is worse than the old Thousand-Year Demonic Sect.”

Unhwi shook his head.

“Not the Original Blood Sect—this is Viper Valley.”

“...Can you really separate the two?”

“Yes. The Original Blood Sect and Viper Valley, the Original Blood Sect and the Celestial Daoist—they may appear inseparable, but they can be separated, if one wishes.”

Ju Soa tilted her head.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Unhwi had no intention of giving a long explanation.

In any case, these were the experiments to create Poison-Soul Constitutions.

It wasn’t simply about injecting poison into fetuses—they recorded the process, observed its effects through qi, dissected and analyzed it.

Everything was written in detail.

And Unhwi could say this with certainty:

Even this much alone was enough to warrant a public execution.

No, not just punishment—a war could break out over this.

Unhwi placed the documents on the floor and looked around. The walls were lined with shelves, stuffed with scrolls and ledgers.

In one corner, rows of glass jars—each containing strange liquids and grotesque organs.

“There should be a two-year-old child here. Find them.”

The sub-division members scattered and began searching the laboratory. Unhwi walked as well.

Roughly a hundred rooms.

Even at a glance, it was clear that an immense amount of effort had gone into building this space.

He silently examined each cell. The sights were horrific.

Beds lined every room, and many of them held corpses. Judging by their swollen bellies, they were mothers. Their stomachs were split open, black blood covered the entire rooms, and the stench was unbearable.

No more poison-bearers appeared. None of the women inside were alive.

“Lord Unhwi, I found them.”

At the farthest cell, Wonyang’s voice called out. Unhwi approached.

As he arrived, Wonyang spoke.

“...But something seems... wrong...”

And that made sense.

Inside the barred room were two corpses.

One appeared to be a two-year-old child with black skin.

The other was a poison-bearer.

The poison-bearer’s chest was torn open, and the child’s mouth was stained with blood.

It was simple.

Poison-bearers weren’t normal humans. So what would a Poison-Soul Constitution be like?

Even as a toddler, the very fact that the child had the Poison-Soul Constitution meant immense aggression.

Unhwi could picture what had happened here.

A poison-bearer came to extract something from the Poison-Soul child—and the child attacked.

Its poison overwhelmed the bearer, and before he died, the bearer instinctively unleashed a technique that killed the child in return.

There was no other explanation.

“...Young master, what will you do?”

Unhwi hadn’t predicted this.

He had intended to secure the Poison-Soul child. If possible, he had even considered treating them.